


Take a Wish

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Ficlet, M/M, Size Difference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 08:16:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3202097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aragorn helps Frodo practice for what he really wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take a Wish

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It seems to take forever to get it all inside, and Frodo spends that eternity rocking his hips in little, tiny circles, easing his way through the haze of pleasure-pain. It’s so very _thick_ , and it stretches his sore entrance beyond anything he’s ever managed before—they don’t even _make_ toys this big in the Shire. The girth is almost torturous, but the length is even worse; no matter how much cock Frodo manages to stuff inside himself, there’s always _more_.

And then finally, _finally_ , he’s fit everything in, and he can drop his weight to the warmth of Aragorn’s thighs. The rough material of Aragorn’s pants and belt scratch at his delicate skin, his bottom flushed with the strain of holding himself up all that time. Frodo can even feel the coarse, dark hair matted around Aragorn’s base, and it tickles against his balls, which look and feel so very tight and small and pink next to Aragorn’s massive stones. 

Frodo feels all over too small—his little body isn’t meant to house such a giant thing—but he’s proud of himself for making it, and at first, all he can do is breathe. Aragorn is kind as ever and allows him that rest. He leans forward, draping himself against Aragorn’s broad, strong chest, and he buries his face in Aragorn’s shoulder as he tries to catch his breath. Behind the chiseled rock they’re using for shelter, Frodo can hear the others sleeping, some snoring, others tossing about. He has to bite his lip to keep his own cries quiet. He wants to groan, wants to squirm and whimper, but he doesn’t. He pants into the hollow of Aragorn’s throat, while the ranger loosely holds onto his back and strokes through his hair. Under Aragorn’s warm hands, Frodo sometimes feels like a pony being soothed, but he doesn’t mind. Aragorn helps him to relax, even though his ass still feels speared open on something too huge to bear. 

When Frodo finally pushes himself straight again, his little hands braced on Aragorn’s big shoulders, Aragorn murmurs, “You don’t have to do this.” His long fingers slide over Frodo’s cheek before tangling in his dark curls, and Frodo leans into that comfort, though he shakes his head minutely.

“I want to,” he whispers. What he means is that he wants to thank Aragorn for saving his life and the lives of his friends, over and over, but all he has to give is his body. And... “Besides, I...” but he doesn’t know if he should say the rest. Aragorn would understand, surely; he has someone waiting for him, too, but it still feels wrong to put into words, so Frodo only licks his lips and asks, “How do I...?”

“Sam wouldn’t be so large.” It’s mumbled so quietly that Frodo almost misses it, and his face shoots up, eyes wide. Of course, Aragorn would know. It was probably foolish for Frodo to think his affections a secret. Aragon dons a gentle smile, and strokes at the small of Frodo’s back, assuring him, “It will be easier with him, but I should think he’d love you back no matter what your bedroom skills were like.”

Frodo can feel his face flushing a hot pink through the darkness. He can only hope the moonlight isn’t showing him off as clearly as it is Aragorn’s handsome face. Perhaps Sam might settle for him, if he asked, but that doesn’t mean that Sam doesn’t deserve _more_. Sam might still prefer Rosie. From her nature at the tavern, she probably has far more practice than Frodo could ever dream. But maybe if he were just a little better...

Aragorn’s hands drift down his body, coming to cling to his hips below his tunic. The material still covers most of his front, though his pants are tugged down, and his cloak drapes over his back; protecting them should anyone wake up and come check on them. Frodo’s fingers tighten in Aragorn’s shoulders, frightened. He’s not sure he _can_ move much with this thing inside him. He can feel it pulsing, feel its heat and harsh texture and the ripples of veins, and he already feels like his channel’s been molded specially too accommodate, but he doesn’t know if he can take being plundered. Aragorn’s probably right, he thinks: Sam would be smaller. A proper hobbit cock, that would fit nicely in Frodo’s body, not hurt but still keep him nice and full, nestle perfectly inside like it was meant to be there. Or at least, so Frodo used to imagine, back in his comfy Bag End, fingering himself at night to the thought of his dependable gardener. He always assumed Sam’s cock would be like his own, only fatter, like all of his beloved Sam. Nothing like Aragorn’s beast of a cock, hard and red and built like a muscle. That’s so much harder to take, and he needs several heavy breaths before he can nod, consenting to movement. 

Aragorn starts to lift him up. Aragorn handles his weight like it’s nothing, moving him up into the air, letting the mammoth plug inside him recede, until it’s only the bulbous head left, and Frodo’s puckered hole is burning and shuddering. They’ve slicked themselves with a goopy liquid that Aragorn said would help, but it can’t take away the stretch. It all still feels very strange. When Frodo’s hovering above Aragorn’s lap on limp knees, Aragorn leaves him for a second, then pushes him back down, slow and steady. 

Frodo whines nonetheless. It’s high-pitched but as hushed as he can, voice breaking with the overwhelming rush of blood in his ears. Aragorn grits his teeth and hisses, “ _Ah_ , you’re _tight_.” Frodo doesn’t know if that’s true or if Aragorn’s perception is just skewed; men aren’t meant to fuck hobbits. Frodo can feel his velvety insides trying to suck at Aragorn and push him out all at once, quivering rapidly and unable to relax. Frodo thought there was supposed to be something about _angles_ involved, but there’s no hope for that with Aragorn. Frodo’s squeezed in all he can, and there’s nowhere to move but in and out. Aragorn does that for him.

Aragorn picks him up again, pushes him back down, and he writhes on it and pants and whimpers, working hard to make sure he doesn’t scream. He wants to scream. But he doesn’t have the strength, anyway—every time he’s pushed down, his head gets a little dizzier. There’s a deep, aching pain and a twisted pleasure from having his entrance rubbed and his body filled and the recycled daydreams that keep fluttering through his mind, all of Sam taking him around different parts of the Shire. He wants to be fucked in the rose bushes, he wants to suck Sam off under his own table, he wants to make quiet love in the back of the Gaffer’s house. He wonders if it would be anything like this, if this experience will help at all, or if Sam’s entirely different below the belt. He’ll love Sam no matter what. Even if it turns out Sam has a massive dick like this, although then they’d have to take day-long breaks between rounds. 

As it is, Frodo doesn’t know how he’s going to walk in the morning. Aragorn methodically lifts him up and down, impaling him and dragging him out, his ass making grotesque squelching sounds as it takes in more and dribbles out more liquid. Aragorn’s face is screwed up in concentration, and then, once, his hips jerk up, taking Frodo by surprise and pounding into him before he’s ready. He bounces in Aragorn’s lap, glued to Aragorn’s cock by the pressure, and he throws his head forward to bury his cry in Aragorn’s chest. Aragorn pets his hair more and tells him, “Shhh, I’m sorry...” But it happens again and again, and Frodo learns to take them. The thrusts wrack his entire body, bouncing his whole frame up, but he starts to take each stab with only a small whimper. Sometimes, when he squirms just right, there’s a burst of pleasure that dwarves out everything else, but mostly it’s just strange and hot and Frodo feels vaguely dirty. Aragorn kisses his forehead and his cheeks and sometimes his nose, but never his lips. Frodo thinks he might prefer it that way, even though Aragorn is incredibly gorgeous and the best person Frodo could share this with besides Samwise Gamgee.

Eventually, Frodo’s semi-hard cock works its way up to fully stiff. His poor ass gets bruised and beaten to the point where the stinging soreness is just part of the routine, and the occasional bouts of pleasure seem more important. He makes himself ask, “Can I...? Can I try?” And Aragorn shudders and rolls his hips to a stop, which leaves Frodo swaying and gulping to adjust. But he has to learn. When he does go to Sam, he wants to be too tempting to resist. He wants to be able to smile as alluringly as Rosie can, dance with as much promise as she can, and then finally get the chance and please Sam right. But Aragorn, somehow, is easier to share dark secrets with, and Aragorn is perfectly obliging. He sits, strong and still, although there’s a tremor to his legs like they want to keep going, and Frodo does the rest on his own. 

He lifts himself up on trembling thighs, his knees barely having the strength, but he thinks of Sam and he does it. He pulls himself up, he pushes himself down, and he tilts his hips experimentally, rocking on Aragorn’s shaft and grinding down to give the movement more momentum and make it easier. He flows from one thrust onto the other, giving himself a steady rhythm. It steals all his breath away, but he screws himself up in concentration and persists, whimpering and moaning the whole way and hoping Aragorn will cover his mouth if he gets too loud. 

Aragorn takes it quietly, watches him through foggy eyes, and mutters, “You’re a pretty thing, Frodo Baggins.” Frodo hesitates only long enough for Aragorn to tuck one stray curl back behind his ear. “Sam would be a fool not to want you.” It makes Frodo blush to hear, but he appreciates the sentiment.

He wants to say that Aragorn is strikingly handsome, too, but he doesn’t have the breath for it. He bounces up and down on the huge cock inside him until Aragorn hisses, leaning a little forward and drawing Frodo suddenly in tight. Crushed against Aragorn’s chest, Frodo tries to keep rocking his hips, and Aragorn holds him down and jerks inside him, shoving in witch quick, erratic movements. A warm liquid erupts in Frodo’s rear, and he shudders at the sensation but clenches around it. Aragorn growls and takes him harder. 

It takes a little while for Aragorn to finish. Frodo keeps going, obediently working his hips until he’s told to stop, until Aragorn settles back against the rock, breathing hard. He goes limp, and Frodo stills his own body, waiting for a sign.

Aragorn nods, and Frodo lifts up, all the way, until the head pops out, now glistening white and slicked with seed. Frodo, collapsing down on the hard ground next to Aragorn’s legs, stares at it. He has to shift on his side, sitting more on his leg than his ass, because his ass feels like it’s gaping open and it stings to touch. Suddenly, he’s horribly empty, but he still doesn’t have the courage to ask Sam to fill him up. 

He’s still hard but too exhausted to do anything about it. So he’s eternally grateful when Aragorn scoops him up, draws him in close and reaches one hand below his tunic, squeezing around his cock. Aragorn gives him quick, soft strokes, and Frodo comes quickly, spending himself against Aragorn’s palm with a little cry. He collapses again after, draped half across Aragorn’s body like a blanket. 

Aragorn bends down to kiss his head, murmuring, “Any man would be fortunate to have you.” Frodo can only laugh, mostly bitterly, because all the men close to him have ended up on this horrid quest. Still, when he closes his eyes and really listens, he can pick out Sam’s snores through the others, and he’s glad not to be alone. 

He falls asleep against Aragorn’s legs, only half aware of being tucked back into his clothes and carried back to camp. In his dreams, he’s on the steps of Bag End, watching Sam shoo bees away from flowers.


End file.
